Anniversary
by Melira
Summary: The anniversary of Cole's death will never be an easy day for Hank. But maybe, just maybe, it'll get better in time. One-shot.


Hank had barely enough time to fully open the front door before Sumo was upon him. Not jumping him, just pressing his head against Hank's hip and following his every movement from that point on. As if he knew what date it was.

The whole day, the numbers on his tablet's calendar indication had tauntingly drawn his gaze away from the files and distracted him from work.  
10/11/2039. Four years. It had been four years since that fucking day his life had lost all reason to be lived. And each year since, he'd spent that black anniversary at home in an alcohol-induced stupor, unable to bear it sober. And each year, Sumo had stayed close to him throughout the whole day, sensing there was something wrong with his owner.

That Hank had finally broken the habit was that fucking android's fault. Of course.  
The day before, Connor had told him he'd spend the next two evenings at New Jericho, conferring with the leaders there in his capacity as highest-ranking android in the DPD, but would still come to work. And then he'd asked Hank if he'd see him there the next day. His tone of voice had been so innocent, it'd been obvious he'd known about the date's significance. And somehow, Hank had found himself unable to just tell him no, he'd stay at home drinking himself senseless. Or else that it was simply none of his business. At least at that moment. So, he'd answered that, of course, Connor would see him there the next day. This morning though he'd deeply regretted the decision. Only knowing the guy would kick in his door shouldn't he show up for work had enabled Hank to leave the house.

It had been a strange feeling. Jeffrey had almost smiled at him when Hank had walked past his office and if he wasn't completely mistaken, that asshole Reed had made two nasty comments less than usual. Surprisingly, Connor had proven to be the least obvious. He'd done his best to act his usual self, apart from throwing Hank more or less inconspicuous glances every ten minutes.

Nonetheless, the day had been utterly exhausting and by the time he could leave the office in good conscience, Hank had barely refrained from buying a bottle at the next liquor store and draining it on the way home. But once he'd made it through the front door, all the self-restraint he'd had left had gone out the window.

He only absentmindedly patted Sumo, kicked off his shoes, threw his jacket over one of the kitchen chairs and pulled open the cabinet next to the fridge. Inside, there were some glasses and two bottles of whiskey, one already opened, one full. After a moment's hesitation, he took the full one and a glass. There was no point in even trying to tell himself he wouldn't drink way too much tonight.

For a moment, he wondered what had become of the old him, the father that had tried to be a role-model for his son, but he immediately shook off the thought. Cole wasn't here anymore, so there was no reason to set a good example. That was the whole point of this fucking day.

Taking the worn picture from his son's sixth birthday that usually sat next to the bottles into his other hand, Hank walked over to the table and heavily sat down on one of the chairs. Sumo looked at him and put his muzzle onto Hank's thigh.

"Yeah, you miss him, too, don't you?", he asked the giant dog, petting his head. "I know."

And he poured himself the first drink.

The anniversary of the accident was the only day on which Hank allowed himself to actually remember his son. Not just the guilt or the sight of him on the EMT's gurney, but the child that had loved nothing more than following Sumo around the house, that had fallen asleep on the couch in the most impossible positions and that had woken him on the weekends, demanding they had pancakes for breakfast. The child he had devoted his whole life to for six too short years.  
Those memories were what kept him alive, what made him play Russian Roulette instead of point-blank shooting himself in the head, what made him drink instead of overdosing on narcotics. But at the same time, they hurt so much he could hardly bear it.  
It just sucked. Life as a whole sucked. The innocent died first while all the assholes out there led a good life, living off selling drugs to fucking doctors so they couldn't do their job anymore.

Hank put down his drink so hard, he startled Sumo enough to make the dog jump back a step. He didn't bother apologizing but got to his feet and marched into his bedroom. Life could go screw itself as far as he was concerned. He'd tried the whole fucking day to put up a façade, he was done keeping his emotions down.

He reached his bed side table and almost violently pulled open the top drawer. There it was. His gun. Time for another round of Russian Roulette.

But when Hank reached out to take it, he noticed the piece of paper tugged underneath the weapon. It was small and folded once in the middle. He knew instantly whose writing he'd find on it.  
With a heavy sigh, he let himself fall onto the edge of his mattress, inwardly cursing the android for being omni-present even when he wasn't there. He was like a walking, talking and, most importantly, self-acting conscience.

Hank unfolded the note and, sure enough, there was Connor's neat hand on it, spelling out only two words. "Please, Hank".

God damn that fucking piece of plastic! Even before he lifted the gun, he knew what he would find. Or rather, wouldn't find. The chamber was empty.

Hank looked at the useless gun in his hand. "Fuck you, kid!", he said half-heartedly. Lifting his gaze, he found Sumo who had followed him into the bedroom and was now accusingly looking at him.

* * *

His internal clock read 11:47 pm when Connor exited the self-driving taxi in front of Hank's house. It wasn't especially late and he had promised himself he wouldn't intrude on the man's grief today, but the probability of Hank already having passed out from alcohol poisoning was rather high, so Connor deemed it safe to enter. He couldn't bring himself to just completely stay away. True, Hank had seemed reasonably stable at work today, but Connor knew the man's tendencies and had found it impossible not to worry. So much so that Markus had all but thrown him out in the end with the order to go and check on his partner. Connor had to admit, he hadn't been of much use tonight, his thoughts constantly straying from their conversation about the prejudices androids still faced in law enforcement.

So here he was, standing in the never-ending rain, impatient and afraid to enter the house at the same time. He was unsure of what he would find inside.  
He walked up the front steps and took out his key on the way, adapting his optical units to the semi-darkness and smoothly inserting it into the key-hole.  
Connor opened the door to find Sumo patiently sitting behind it, looking up at him, his tail swishing slowly over the floor.

"Hey, Sumo", Connor said, kneeling down in front of the dog. "How's Hank doing, huh? Did you look out for him?" He got a nudge to his hand in response and shortly petted the furry head before getting to his feet again.

He noticed the pair of shoes haphazardly thrown into the room and Hank's jacket missing from the coat rack. Slightly more worried, he moved deeper into the house, already guessing where he'd find Hank.

When the kitchen table came into view, Connor was relieved to see his partner still sitting on a chair instead of lying on the floor, although he was slumped over. Quickly scanning him, Connor was reassured by the strong vital signs he monitored. Apparently, Hank hadn't even passed out, only fallen asleep drunk.

Taking a closer look at the surroundings, he noticed a lone bottle of whiskey, only half empty, a drained glass next to Hank's head and two pieces of paper in his right hand. Getting closer, Connor could identify them. The bigger one was the picture of Cole Hank usually used to torture himself with. The smaller one was the note he'd written and put next to Hank's gun. Which was absent from the scene as he noticed belatedly. Connor allowed himself a small smile.

"It appears, our work has finally paid off", he told the dog who had taken up residence next to his owner's slumped figure. "Maybe one day we'll even get him to survive one of these days without drowning himself in alcohol." Sumo woofed quietly in response.

Connor bent over Hank and took him lightly by the shoulder. "Wake up, Hank. It's me, Connor."

A groan answered him. "Leave me alone."

Pleased, how easy it had been to rouse the man, Connor prepared to move him. "I will, once you are no longer ruining your back hanging over this table."

"'Tis my back, can do with it wha'ever I wan'", Hank slurred, but judging by the comparatively small amount of alcohol missing from the bottle that was more due to the fact he had just been woken than because of intoxication.

Connor refused to let himself be deterred. "But I'm the one who will have to listen to your complaints. Come on." And he tugged at Hank's arm, pretending to try and pull him upwards. Amused, Connor noticed Sumo nudging Hank's left side and Hank trying to simultaneously pet the dog and shove it away.

"Sumo, stop", he groaned but finally attempted to get up on his own, heavily leaning on the table with his right hand. Which was still holding the picture and the note. Realizing what was hindering him, Hank turned his head towards Connor. "You stole my bullet!", he said accusingly.

Connor looked at the now standing man. "Only the one."

Hank sighed. "Know. Others are still in their box. Checked."

Another smiled tugged at Connor's mouth and something like pride welled up inside him. So, Hank had willingly refrained from risking his life in the end although he'd obviously planned on falling back into old habits at first.  
"Alright, let's get you somewhere more comfortable", Connor said and started steering the slightly swaying Hank away from the table.

"Not the shower!", Hank suddenly exclaimed and Connor couldn't help himself but grin for a moment, despite the situation.

"No, not the shower. Just your bed."

"Hmpf, alright", Hank grumbled and walked, mostly on his own, towards the bedroom, Connor still having a grip on his right arm and Sumo flanking him on his left.

When they reached Hank's bedroom, Connor led him to sit on the bed and tugged the picture and the note from Hank's hand, placing both on the bedside table. Hank looked up at him, overwhelming sadness in his eyes. "I miss him", he said in a low voice and Connor's proverbial heart broke. He had hardly ever seen Hank sad, usually the man hid his grief behind a mask of resignation and aggression. And although his knowledge of human psychology told him this was progress, it almost physically hurt just seeing the broken man in front of him.

"I know", Connor simply answered, wondering if Hank would ever heal again.

Both of them knowing there was nothing more to be said, Hank lay down on top of his blanket, not bothering to undress. Sumo immediately jumped up onto the other half of the bed, making the wooden frame shake, and placed himself next to Hank.

"I'll be on the couch", Connor said when he left the room, leaving the door ajar. And only his high-class audio-processors allowed him to pick up the murmured "Thanks, Connor" from behind him. He smiled as he walked back into the kitchen to stow away the started bottle of whiskey.


End file.
